


The Witch's Prince

by Faestae



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, I hate tagging, Magic, Wolf....sex?, and sex, and uhm...spell casting, magical dick sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 18:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13440996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faestae/pseuds/Faestae
Summary: He is a force of chaos before a man. A beast; a wolf that none can behold.None but I.





	The Witch's Prince

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voidrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidrot/gifts).



> A little thing for my Jenpai because she's goth. Love you, bby.

Across the endless fields on the towering hillside kingdom, there lived a lonely prince. He was strong and handsome, his eyes endless like amber. Dark freckles kissed his flesh like planets scattered across galaxies; his nose prominent like the mountain. By day, he governed the hillside kingdom with a just and glittering hand, but by night, under the cover of darkness, he wept along his parapet.

I had watched them as they arrived. In caravans of gold, their grand processions of riches and beauty; pretty girls primped like birds on their dowries. They love him for his looks and for his coffers that ran as deep as the winter is frigid, but they are not like me. They cannot see him as I do.

When he breathes, the trees sigh with him, and when he passes his hand through his hair, the night sky mourns its missing piece. When he strides along his parapet, the rivers fight their flow and when he speaks, rolling thunder rises to his challenge. The heart in his chest belongs to the pack the way it growls like the earth under miles of solid ice.

He is a force of chaos before a man. A beast; a wolf that none can behold.

None but I.

Perched beside him, feathered and beady eyed, I listen to him weep. In his native tongue, he speaks of his loneliness--nights before the caravans of gold depart to the horizon staring at the darkness above-- reeling in his insatiable desire for pleasure no riches can provide. Passion swirls under flesh but when he touches them, they feel no such force, only fingers, only lips.

Inside, he hears my voice; I chant for him to seek me. He hears me between his ears and along his spine. He asks how he could and I reveal myself to him, shedding my feathers before his very eyes.

He is in awe of me against the moonlight, a child under the aurora.

“Scent me, my wolf,” I tell him, and he obeys.

In a flurry, I depart from him and away he runs. Through his castle fighting the restraints of his robes, he descends the spiraling stairs. Even without slippers he emerges into the snow, his hair like ink spilling against his pale complexion. He catches a glimpse of the moon as it hangs over the forests’ beginning, the wall of darkness growing dense as he stares.

Only then do I appear again, a hand that caresses the bark.

He advances.

Through my trees, he races and I feel him coming like impending chill through the leaves of a single summer blossom. I slink through the ancient arms of the earth, listening to the way his heart pounds to the rhythm of time itself. Against the ice and snow, his feet thunder with every impact-- an ancient spirit that the forest sees as no stranger. He hunts me like a madman, and turned feral by desire, he chases my shadow until my scent becomes the blood between his bones. He is pounding, the darkness arching him forward onto heavy paws.

Suddenly, he stops, and before him, my abode sheds its cloak of disguise.

“Tемнота.”

Darkness, he calls me. And I go to him.

Shrouding him in my sanctuary, I undress him of his riches-- away go layers of black silk and velvet embroidered with leagues of golden roses until he is bare. Even his virgin hands, righteous and just are stripped of their accessories to broad fingers that tremble against my flesh. Between his broad shoulders, he truly looks as a beast would, flushed and panting; a wolf in a fever dream.

With his shadowed eyes, he watches me, my shoulders and my breasts. In his hands, he is eager to grasp me, like prey before the kill, as if I could turn to smoke between his fingers to escape him.

“Wolf,” I say in his tongue. He breathes.

He takes me in his hands, inhaling like a gust of summer wind and in a gasp, I am on my back in the fur.

The wolf pulses against the inside of his skin, but he subdues it, pushing my thighs apart and lapping my sex like the tides of the distant sea. Nose against my clitoris, he consumes me, pulling my galaxy through my center with his lips; slicked with desire. I breathe spells into the musk of my hut and I see them caress him. Against his heated flesh, they sink, weaving the blood to fill his lovely cheeks, against his neck, chest and shoulders. It speaks to him, in languages unknown, but felt in the rhythm of the earth, and in the howling of midnight.

I control him and he obeys.

On his back, he falls to my vertigo, the nectar of my presence sapping deeply his consciousness. Crawling the expanse of his body, I am a panther, speaking to him dead words that further awaken the trembling in his chest. My spell breathes ice through my bones and he flexes under my hips, his muscles tensing like the air in a summer storm. His flesh becomes hot, the flora curling up off the walls of my hut to claim him.

Around his wrists and neck, the forest embraces him and against his flesh, the vines breathe deep. Sweet-smelling blossoms of fireweed open under his chin and crawl to his naked hands. Bursts of chamomile and thymus fill my abode with its heavy perfume, tarragon unfurling and tucking themselves away around his cock that rested full and thick against his stomach.

He tastes like wine, dark and rich from every orifice. Tarragon petals catch in my lips as I lick them, squeezing his sex against my kiss. He feels priceless with me, but the riches of his father hold no power here. In this haze, he is a victim to his own desire, a slave to my touch and to the call of the deepest wild.

Beneath his flesh, the wolf stirs anew.. He writhes in the sensation, tugging hard to the vines that restrain him as the heat that moves from us stirs the growl traveling to his lips.

He calls to me, “Tемнота.” And I consume him.

Inside me, he approaches the end of what he knows. Peering into the endless dark, it pulses; a tremble tracing his alluring lip. He cannot see, but he feels me surrounding him, the hot pulse of intercourse burning like chaos. When I breathe, he breathes and when I sigh, he growls feral and more beautiful.

“Run.” He awakens to my sigh. Pressing his force, he searches, honeyed eyes wild in the shadow. “Run, my wolf,” I say. One step off the edge of night reveals purchase, the darkness shuddering like the clenching of my walls around him. His heart beats with mine, racing to the pulse of my passion.

Suddenly, he wakes, eyes beaming like stars shooting wild across the sky. His speckled forehead perspires, lips open in delirious sex watching me roll my hips; the moon urging the tide. His chest arks with need, clenching with every panting breath, the heart of the world booming against his prison of flesh. Moans rise from his throat, lips closing to whines that grow with each crescendo. His spirit runs; I feel it in my sex. Pounding claws of the beast, darting through the night. Every thrust mounts me higher—higher until the moon peaks at her zenith.

He howls.

Away go the chaos and the screams of the wild. Gone is the thunder, and the cries of midnight mourning. Forests yield to the roar of their king and to I the eye inside him awakening. 

His spirit, kin with flesh, stands naked now in the shadow; heaving to the eerie peace of satisfaction. Cock soft against his muscle, he searches for me, straining his eyes to see. 

“Tемнота,” he breathes and I go to him.

Barren as he, I reveal myself in desecrated moonlight. My skin is flushing as his, dripping with him as he is with me; a black mirror in the darkness that glints between us. He knows what we have done, yet he is not afraid. Eyes wild, he watches me put my hands on his face, fingers over his lips. He closes them around me and again, his cock aches. Pulling myself from him draws a whimper from his lovely mouth and on them, I satisfy my own. I place my hand on his chest; something breathes with him.

“Wolf,” I say to him and he understands.

As the moon begins to sink, the sky wipes its tears. The prince awakens on his parapet.

In his robes he is glittering and concealed again; a man. His skin is warm in the ice of the witching hour, hair standing high on end. His eyes take the hilltop in their gaze, rolling down to the line of the woods that stood without breath. With his heart, he reaches, the ache my sex has satisfied still lulling in his silks.

I cock a beady eye to him and take flight.

 


End file.
